


Once Upon A Yesterday

by dsa_archivist



Category: due South
Genre: Drama, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2000-03-20
Updated: 2000-03-20
Packaged: 2018-11-10 08:04:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11123127
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsa_archivist/pseuds/dsa_archivist
Summary: Fraser and Thatcher find a link to a shared kindness in a forgotten past.





	Once Upon A Yesterday

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Speranza, the archivist: this story was once archived at [Due South Archive](http://fanlore.org/wiki/Due_South_Archive). To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I tried to reach out to all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [Due South Archive collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/duesoutharchive).

Once Upon A Yesterday

## Once Upon A Yesterday

by Voyagerbabe

Author's webpage: http://www.geocities.com/Area51/Starship/6102/home.html

Author's disclaimer:   
There once was a group in Toronto,   
Who made the world's best TV show.   
People, wolves, places, and plot,   
All the rights they have got,   
But here I can do what I want to!

Author's notes: (ARCHIVISTS NOTE: Voyagerbabe has left the internet for an indefinite period of time. Her works are still being posted through a network of friends. The address link for the author will actually take you to one such friend, Courser, who will happily get all feedback to VB.)

* * *

"Once Upon A Yesterday"  
Voyagerbabe 

March 11, 1884. 

Dear Mrs. Scott: 

I am writing to thank you again for you kind hospitality November last. Although you stated that no recompense was necessary, I hope that you will agree to accept this token of my gratitude. The final decision remains yours of course, but should you be inclined to accept, I shall be passing your door upon my regular patrol in some three months time. It would be my honor to offer escort and safe passage to the nearest train station, or a destination of your choosing. 

Constable T. Fraser 

*** 

The letter had been written on coarse, cheap paper, and the ink was a bit smudged in one corner where a splash of water or snow had encountered it between the author's pen and her hand. Although the words were those of an educated man, the lines of script wavered loosely across the paper, the handwriting heavy and occasionally splotched with loose spots of ink. She ran her finger over the words, smiling slightly. 

If she closed her eyes, she could almost see him. She knew for a fact that his handwriting was usually smooth and graceful, so he must have been tired when he wrote to her. The picture her mind conjured saw him sitting by the light of a small oil lamp, leaning too close to the paper as his hand moved slowly across the lines of text, occasionally stopping to dip into the inkwell when the letters began to fade. If his hand was trembling, as a few words suggested, he would have simply clenched the pen tighter, thickening the already blocky script. 

He wouldn't have admitted to himself that he was exhausted, that he perhaps should have waited until the morning to write her. He had promised to write as soon as he reached the post, and he would have done so. The Constable was stubborn that way, in the same charmingly exasperating way that he burned the bacon and refused to admit to his need for spectacles. 

Carefully folding the letter, she laid it gently next to her tea on the table. Reaching into the envelope, she drew out his token of gratitude, still not quite able to believe what she was seeing. She knew how much it had cost him, and it was no small sum. Even now, looking at it for the hundredth time in the half hour since she had slit open the letter, she still couldn't quite believe it. 

*** 

April 3, 1884 

Dear Constable Fraser: 

Your supposed 'token' is generous beyond the humble capacity of words. I will not bother with platitudes, as you are well aware of its meaning to me, and I am well aware of its cost to you. Suffice to say that there was no hesitation involved in my choice. It would be my hope that this letter should reach you in time to inform you that I gratefully accept your offer, but should the post be delayed, or should this letter find you absent upon some business, then I will simply await your arrival as stated in your letter. 

Mrs. M. Scott 

*** 

Margaret Scott signed the letter with a delicate flourish, then folded it precisely. Her hands were shaking as she slid it into the envelope, penning the Constable's name on the outside. Though she had now officially accepted his gift, the implications were only beginning to sink in. 

A soft muzzle nudged against her skirt, and she reached down, scratching Winchester's ears before he degraded himself with begging and whining. The presence of the large mutt was warm and familiar, and she took a sip of tea with the hand that was not occupied in his wiry fur. Swallowing the slightly sweet brew, she looked down at him. "Do you remember Constable Fraser, Winchester?" 

The rapid thump of his tail against the table leg and his tongue-lolling grin assured her that he did, and she laughed. "I thought as much. You should be ashamed for proving to be such a truly abhorrent guard dog. You gave me no warning of his arrival." 

Her fingers continued to scratch, satisfying Winchester, but her tea grew cold as it lay unattended. Margaret was staring past the flickering flame of the oil lamp, staring into a night just over half a year past. 

*** 

She had quite nearly shot him. 

A cabin in the far reaches of the Northwest Territories of Canada received few visitors. Indeed, in the six years she had lived within those thick log walls, she had received the grand total of three: one Cree Indian, one traveling parson, and one salesman. None of those were received in November, when the snow drifts piled past the windows, driven by the same howling wind that could tear its teeth through the thickest clothing to snap away warmth. Certainly, none of them were received at nine o'clock at night. 

When she had heard the pounding on her door, she had first thought it a trick of the wind. When its persistence had proved otherwise, she had become frightened. Images of savages come to rape and murder swirled through her mind, goaded by more childish fears of ghastly monsters that would walk out of snowstorms and snatch her soul. Clad only in her nightgown and a woolen shawl, she had taken her Colt from its drawer in her bedside table, checking the chamber to confirm the presence of all six bullets. 

The click as she cocked the hammer soothed her fears only slightly. She was wound tighter than a watch spring as she unbarred the door and flung it open, thrusting the muzzle of the Colt ahead of her into the gut of whatever vicious creature was waiting there as she screamed, "I'll shoot!" 

The vicious creature had simply let out a very non-vicious "Oof." This was followed by a quiet male voice. "Please don't." 

Not even feeling the cold air that was rushing into the warm confines of the cabin, she forced her eyes open. Until that moment, Margaret had not even realized that she had shut them. 

What she was holding at gun point was not a rampaging mountain man with a bloodied ax and sprawling beard, nor was it a fanged snow beast. It was a man, a man who looked drawn and exhausted beneath his thick swaddling of furs and leather. He leaned against the door frame heavily, all of his energy clearly involved in the simple task of holding himself upright. His face was mostly concealed behind a thick woolen scarf, but the scarf had become thickly crusted with the same ice that caked his eyebrows and hung like tears from the lashes that rimmed his blue eyes. 

Her own eyes narrowed. "Who are you, and what are you doing here?" 

"Constable Tom Fraser, ma'am." His voice was hoarse and wavering, 

"Could you please let me...let me in..." Suddenly, his hand slipped from the door frame and he stumbled forward, collapsing to his knees and knocking the Colt from her hand. 

The Colt and the accompanying fear forgotten, she quickly reached to catch him, helping him pull himself through the doorway enough to close and bolt the heavy wooden portal. Snow had drifted in onto the roughly hewn boards of the floor, and the temperature within the cabin had plummeted, but Margaret didn't notice her own shivering. 

The Constable barely made it through the doorway before sagging completely to the floor, all but unconscious. His clothes almost looked to be made of glass, thickly caked with snow and glazed with ice that gleamed and glittered as it melted in the warmth from the fireplace. He was adequately dressed for winter travel in a thick parka, heavy leather and fur leggings, and good, sturdy boots, but no one could survive for long in that weather without shelter. She wondered what had possessed him to be out in such a remote area alone, but it didn't really matter. What mattered was getting him warmed up. 

He was almost six feet tall, broad shouldered and solidly muscled, and she knew that there was no way she could move him on her own. Rushing over to the cupboard, she retrieved a bottle of whisky, dusty with disuse, and poured a good measure of the amber liquid into the hot tea she had already prepared for herself. Gently lifting the man's head into her lap, she spooned the warm mixture between his lips. At the second spoonful, he sputtered and coughed, his eyes fluttering open. 

He had begun to shiver violently, and she knew that she didn't have much time. It took her almost fifteen minutes to get him over to the bed, half carrying him all the way. By the time he lowered himself onto the simple mattress, the last of his strength had been sapped. Margaret had to wrestle the soaking wet clothing off of him by herself, tugging at heavy boots and pulling at fasteners that didn't seem inclined to cooperate. When she finally reached the warm, dry woolen long johns that she had decided to leave quite firmly in place, her arms ached, and she was dripping wet with a mixture of sweat and the melted snow from his clothing. 

She paused, looking at him. He was fairly young, but not a child like so many of those who had come west, perhaps in his early thirties. It was a boyish face, surprisingly smooth and handsome given the harsh climate, and she almost laughed as she heard her mother's pragmatic voice remind her that if a frozen man was going to fall into her cabin and ruin her night, he should at least have the decency to be handsome. His chin was shadowed with dark beard, and his deep brown curls were unruly and didn't seem to have seen a barber in some time, but he seemed to take care of himself nonetheless. At the very least, he didn't stink as badly as most of the fur trappers and miners that she met when she ventured into town. 

His entire body shook fiercely with the cold, but all she could provide were plenty of blankets and some more whiskey in more tea that she spooned into him. She was pleased to see that at least his eyebrows no longer looked like snow banks. Margaret had intended to keep a vigil, but the unexpected exertion of the night refused to allow it. She slept with Winchester that night, curled by the fire as the nearly frozen stranger slowly began to thaw. 

*** 

She awoke to the smell of bacon burning. It was a surprising smell, as she had not had bacon in the cabin for nearly a week, much less burned any. 

Her second realization of the morning was that she had been relocated. No longer was she on the floor in front of the fireplace, but tucked neatly between the warm layers of blankets on the bed. Confused, she sat up, blinking the sleep from her eyes as she looked around the single tiny room. 

The man from the night before was standing at her stove, trying to wave away a thick pall of smoke rising from a frying pan he held in one hand. His movements were a little stiff, but he seemed to have recovered rather nicely from his brush with hypothermia. He was also completely dressed, having donned the now-dry shirt and trousers he had been wearing beneath his thick outerwear. "You're looking well." 

He nearly dropped the pan as he spun to look at her, clearly startled. "You're awake!" 

"Quite. You seem to have thawed enough to prove yourself a poor cook." She observed dryly. 

He smiled sheepishly, a surprisingly boyish blush tinting his deeply tanned cheeks. "I'm terribly sorry about putting you through such trouble last night. It was really inappropriate of me to..." 

"Nonsense." Margaret swung her legs out of bed, reaching for her shawl. She wrapped it snugly around her shoulders as she walked over, taking the smoking pan from him and plunging it into the pan of soapy water where her dishes soaked. "You were nearly frozen. The only inappropriate actions were mine in almost turning you away from my door with a bullet." She saw the rasher of bacon that lay on the sideboard and reasoned that it, along with the dried apples and raisins nearby, must have come from his pack. Motioning him to the table, she began to cut new slices from the thick slab of meat. "I admit, however, to some curiosity as to what brought you here. Perhaps you could shed a bit of light on the subject?" 

Conceding the breakfast preparations to her without complaint, he began to take plates and cups from her cupboards to set the table. "I'm not quite certain if I told you last night, but my name is Tom Fraser, and I'm a Constable with the Northwest Mounted Police. I was a schoolteacher before that, then I rode out with George French to stop the whiskey runners in '73. I've patrolled this area with my partner for nearly a year now, but that storm yesterday seemed to arrive on the winged heels of Mercury. I lost sight of my partner within the first hour, and I can only hope that he found some shelter. When my horse caught his leg, I was forced to shoot the poor beast and continue on foot. I consider it my great fortune that I came upon such a warm cabin and such a beautiful hostess before I succumbed to the temperature." 

Her hand froze on the bacon as she felt herself blush. It had been a long time since she had been given a compliment of any sort, and she had to admit that it was not an unwelcome occurrence. There was a smile in her voice as she lightly admonished him. "Mr. Fraser, I thank you for your flattery, but I am very aware that I am both quite plain and quite recently widowed. Too recently to be interested in a man's advances." 

"I'm sorry." There was real sympathy in his voice. "Not for the first, but the second. May I inquire as to the nature of his passing?" 

She told him. She told him about how she met Charles, how he was so bold and brash and full of adventure and how she was so young and eager and ready to escape the stuffy confines of Ontario society. She told him of coming west, of building the cabin and settling so far from civilization. She told him of the nights spent worrying about the fate of her fur-trading husband, and how she had nearly lost her mind when she had been told he had disappeared. She told him how she had hoped and prayed for nearly a year before his body was found, and how she had wept when her hope was gone. She told him how lonely it had been for the past ten months of utter isolation, how she had begun calling Winchester and the other dogs her "boys," as though they were the children she had never been given. 

She didn't notice when she abandoned the breakfast, or exactly what moment he took her in her arms. Margaret simply melted there, wordlessly grateful for the presence of simple human contact, a literal shoulder to cry on. She did cry. She cried for a full hour, then slowly, her tears began to run out, her breathing to calm. 

Embarrassed at her display, she pushed out of his arms, wiping her face on her sleeve. "I'm sorry. That was completely...." 

"Understandable." He smiled gently, and she was surprised to see that there was nothing more than sympathy in his eyes. He didn't seem to consider her a fool, nor did his earlier comment seem to have been the precursor to additional romantic overtures. Standing, he fetched the tea kettle, filling both their cups. 

She wrapped her hands around the warm mug, breathing the steam deeply. "I don't know whether to chide you for your accommodation of my feminine emotions or commend you for it, Constable. Your own wife has found herself a remarkably empathetic husband." 

"My wife is dead." 

"Oh." Their eyes met, and in his clear blue eyes, she saw their shared grief. He held the contact only a moment, then looked away. "You do understand." 

"I joined the Mounted Police to escape her shadow. You must share this cabin with his. I understand that you're far braver than I." 

"It's a bravery born of necessity, Constable," she admitted, "I loved this country because he did. I would desire nothing more now than to return to my family in the east." 

There was a long pause as he measured a small spoonful of sugar into his cup, stirring slowly, almost pensively. He didn't look up, but his voice was measured as carefully as the sugar as he spoke. "Could you return by train?" 

Margaret laughed. "If I had that kind of money, I could do many things." 

He had laughed as well, and they had made breakfast together, talking of anything and everything except for dead husbands, dead wives, and far away dreams. She had enjoyed his company, and enjoyed the sound of her own voice conversing and laughing with another in the lonely cabin. When he finally left on snowshoes two days later, she had almost begged him to stay, but quickly squelched the selfish desire and resigned herself to being alone once more. 

She would treasure those days, and she would not wish for more. After all, it had been a fair trade, had it not? She had given him refuge and warmth, and he had given her something in return. 

He had given her understanding. 

*** 

Winchester had fallen asleep at her feet, and the lamp had burned down to a dim flame that barely cast shadows across the table top. It was just enough light to reflect off the thin tracks that tears had traced down Margaret's cheeks as she held the small slip of paper in her hands. 

She didn't need to see it. The printing on the paper was burned into her mind, her heart, her very soul. It was his token of gratitude...a one-way train ticket to Ottawa. She closed her eyes, remembering that odd tone in his voice when he had asked her if she could return by train. She knew now that he had been planning to give her something, something far greater than even his understanding. 

Her sense of fairness demanded that she give him something of equal worth in return, but her sense of reason told her that there could be no such gift. 

How could anyone repay someone who gave you the rest of your life? 

*** 

Inspector Margaret Thatcher's hands were shaking as she slowly closed her great-grandmother's letter. Her eyes flickered towards the door of her office, as though she could look beyond and into the nearby office of her Deputy Liaison Officer. 

It couldn't be. It was just a surname, after all, and a relatively normal one at that. There must be thousands of them. Finding the name in a letter had to be a coincidence. That the man had served in the same organization that was a tradition in her Fraser's family had to be a coincidence. That he had lived and worked in the same sparsely populated and desolate region of Canada had to be a coincidence. That the description of her great-grandmother's Fraser could almost have been a twin brother had to be a coincidence. 

Or were those too many coincidences? 

She looked at the letter, then again at the door, envisioning the Constable standing in front of her desk, at rigid attention for another dressing down. Only in her imagination, he wasn't wearing the modern dress reds. 

He was wearing the uniform of a Northwest Mounted Policeman. The tunic had been much the same, but with far fewer adornments, and the belt had been simple and straight, rather than the complicated cross-strap of the Sam Browne. The trousers would have been the same dark blue with the same yellow stripe, only they would not yet have been jodhpurs, but simple and straight-legged above the high brown riding boots. The biggest change would have been the hat, not a Stetson, but a shako, brown leather with a yellow fringe. Conservative and old-fashioned, but eminently masculine. The overall image was not unappealing. 

Was that what Constable Tom Fraser had looked like? Was that what her great-grandmother saw when he came to collect her at her door, dressed in his parade best? She had laughed at that, but he had claimed that it was no less than his obligation to his angel of mercy. 

She had promised herself to repay him somehow, but she had never found a way. 

Could her great-granddaughter perhaps take a bit of the burden from her? Opening her desk drawer, she returned the letter to it's resting place, but a determined smile remained in her eyes. Perhaps it wouldn't hurt to be a little bit kinder to the Constable for a few days. 

Just in case it wasn't a coincidence. 

*** 

Constable Benton Fraser's hands were shaking as he slowly closed his great-grandfather's journal. His eyes flickered towards the door of his office, as though he could look beyond and into the nearby office of his Commanding Officer. 

It couldn't be. It was just a surname, after all, and a relatively normal one at that. There must be thousands of them. He knew Thatcher's mother's maiden name from Consular paper work, but finding it in a journal had to be a coincidence. That she had mentioned an ancestor who lived and worked in the same sparsely populated and desolate region of Canada had to be a coincidence. That she had claimed to have been named "Margaret" for a great-grandmother had to be a coincidence. That the description of his great-grandfather's Margaret could almost have been a twin sister had to be a coincidence. 

Or were those too many coincidences? 

He looked at the letter, then again at the door, envisioning the Inspector standing in the doorway his office, ready to protect herself in one breath, but to give compassion in another. Only in his imagination, she wasn't wearing a harshly cut business suit or the red uniform. 

She was wearing a crisp white cotton blouse that she had somehow kept perfectly clean despite the trials of the frontier. Delicate embroidery and careful gathers trimmed the edges his great-grandfather had described, speaking of a woman who possessed both patience and talent. Her chestnut hair fell softly over her shoulders, a shawl of scarlet wool clutched around her body. Dark woolen petticoats hid her legs but clearly outlined her slender waist and hips, falling to her ankles. Conservative and old fashioned, but eminently feminine. The overall image was not unappealing. 

Was that what Margaret Scott had looked like? Was that what his great-grandfather saw when he came to collect her at her door, dressed in his parade best? She had laughed at that, but he had claimed that it was no less than his obligation to his angel of mercy. 

He had known a train ticket was a poor compensation for his life, and he had promised to fully repay her some day. 

Could his great-grandson perhaps take a bit of the burden from him? Opening his desk drawer, he returned the letter to it's resting place, but a determined smile remained in his eyes. He would redouble his efforts to be the ideal subordinate, and maybe he would turn down a few of Detective Vecchio's proposed extracurricular activities for the next few days. 

Just in case it wasn't a coincidence. 

**THE END**


End file.
